A Smick Adventure, Part I: November 5-6

The blog delay has reached a critical stage, so forgive me for presenting the following abbreviated and long overdue account of the Saint Mary's Rome Program 2013 trip to southern Italy.

After just one school day following my weekend in Matera, all thirty-four Smicks* boarded a coach bus bound for the Bay of Naples, a few hours' drive south along Italy's west coast. Dr. Portia Prebys - director of the program - three professors, and two bus drivers would accompany us on five days of touring one of the most well-known, picturesque, and historically important areas of Italy. None of us really knew what we were getting into; all we knew was how exhausted we were as our bus pulled away at 7:00am on November 5, and how annoying it was when our professors barked into a megaphone to tell us about the history of some piece of wall we were passing, when all we wanted to do was close our eyes and nap. But as soon as the signature double-crest of Mount Vesuvius came peering out of the morning fog, there was no time to sleep. We were here!

First glimpse of Vesuvio 

We pulled into Herculaneum (modern Italian name: Ercolano) at about 10:30. Now, for those of you who haven't heard of this ancient city, you've likely heard of one of its neighbors: Pompeii. Both of these cities - and a few others, like Oplontis - grew up near the Bay of Naples in the shadow of Vesuvius, one of the most notorious (and yes, still active!) volcanoes on Earth. On August 24, AD 79, Vesuvius exploded in an cataclysmic eruption that devastated the surrounding area, burying Herculaneum and Pompeii in ash, lava, and superheated mud. The entire coastline was radically altered by the blast, and the cities remained buried until Pompeii was rediscovered in 1599 (Herculaneum, being much smaller, remained buried until the 1700s). Today, both cities (Pompeii in particular) are major touristic attractions because of how well the volcanic ash preserved everything from wooden doors to painted walls to skeletons.

Herculaneum

Since most of the Rome program is enrolled in Archaeology or Art History (or both, poor souls), much of our time in Herculaneum was spent giving and listening to presentations about various homes, buildings, and art decorations. There was something inexplicably eerie, though, to be wandering around the streets, touching the same stones and landmarks that the ancients touched...all under the shadow of the mountain that betrayed them. (There is simply no other way to put it; I've tried thinking of less dramatic language, but for me the moment was really that dramatic. It was incredible.) The most poignant moment, though, came right at the entrance. The city is below the level of the modern roads because of the meters and meters of ash that buried it, and at the edge - what was once the ancient coastline - is a stone arcade where ships would likely dock for the night. Inside the arcades is where the unlucky victims of Vesuvius spent their last moments, having made their way to the sea only to realize there was no escape. The skeletons have been left where they were found (or, at least, replicas laid in the exact positions and locations of the originals, which were moved for preservation and respect). It was a very personal encounter with the city, its inhabitants, and its demise that I was not expecting.

The ancient arcade

The bodies

After Herculaneum, we drove to the other side of the volcano to visit Pompeii. Many people who know me were undoubtedly aware of my excitement about seeing these ruins; since I was very young (like, elementary school) I'd been fascinated with the city, and visiting it had been on my bucket list since my first Latin class back in 2006. I also had my own Archaeology presentation to give, a five-to-ten minute speech about the Villa of the Mysteries, a sprawling country estate that had once housed wealthy families and a thriving wine business. But unfortunately - since daylight savings' had been a few weekends earlier - the sun was setting fast. We sped through the ancient streets with their signature "crosswalks" (see photo), cramming for a quick full-group photo in the odion (an ancient concert hall), crisscrossing the ancient Forum with Vesuvius brooding ominously in the background, coming face to face with plaster casts of ancient bodies in the Stabian Baths complex, giggling in front of the famous "Cave Canem" mosaic (below), and wandering the enormous expanse of the luxurious House of the Faun. All too soon for me, it was dark and we were leaving the city walls for a quick rendevous with the Villa of the Mysteries (I gave my presentation by the light of an iPhone...yeah).

Pompeiian crosswalks! (Wagon wheels could fit in the grooves while pedestrians didn't need to get their feet filthy with the muck and mud of the street)

Cave Canem: Beware of Dog

While excavating Pompeii, archaeologists found cavities in the hardened ash where corpses had decomposed and left their imprints behind. Since then, plaster has been poured into these cavities so that we can see the bodies of the volcano victims at the moment of death. 

Very eerie.

We were staying in a hotel in Pompei (note the spelling difference between the modern Pompei and ancient Pompeii) that gave us a fantastic meal that compensated for the abysmal WiFi and rocklike mattresses. It had been a full day, so my friend Holly and I collapsed on our beds after dinner and did very little else until morning, besides take a cold shower and read some of A Study in Scarlet. 

Vesuvius in the morning

The next morning we enjoyed a delicious and very European breakfast courtesy of the hotel: pastries, muesli, yogurt, ham, cheese, fruit, rolls, cake, and lots of options for caffè. Then we loaded once again onto the bus for a drive down the legendary Amalfi Coast. Known to packed during the summer, it was equally beautiful even on this November morning, the sunlight illuminating the electric blue water and the spectacular craggy cliffs plunging into the sea. Our route wound through impossibly tiny streets in the most charming Italian towns, their brightly colored buildings practically shining in the daylight. Ceramic roofs and walls - yes, ceramic roofs and walls - in particular captured my gaze; have you ever seen a ceramic church steeple?

Amalfi Coast

Ceramic church

We ended our drive at little city of (surprise!) Amalfi, where we were finally let loose to explore its steep upward streets and its delightful shops, churches, restaurants, and seafront. First we explored the Cathedral of Sant'Andrea/Saint Andrew, where (some of?) the bones of the saint are kept along with many other holy objects, including what may or may not be a piece of the Holy Cross itself. The architecture was stunning and exotic after over a month in Rome; it had a distinctly Middle Eastern or Byzantine feel that classical, Catholic Rome would never have allowed back in the day, and it made for a very lovely tour.

Church of Sant'Andrea, Amalfi

Afterwards we found a cute little restaurant for a nice lunch up the hill (being right on the water, Amalfi climbs up the foot of the coastal "mountains") and settled in for a calm, relaxing afternoon of shopping and eating gelato...in true Italian fashion. It had been a very tiring few weeks for everybody, with early morning tours every Saturday and jam-packed weeks of studying, so there was nothing I would rather have done than spend a leisurely half-day in Amalfi. The air was warm and fresh and clean, the sky was brilliantly blue, the water was calm and sparkling with sunlight, and Amalfi itself was worth every bit of hype I'd encountered. (Plus, since it was off-season, the crowds were completely manageable, which made a tremendous difference.) I bought a little bottle of limoncello and a small ceramic replica of Pompeii's "Cave Canem" mosaic (since both ceramics and limoncello are typical exports of the Amalfi area). 

In the last hour before the bus arrived to take us back to Pompei, most of the SMC girls made it down to the waterfront for some photos. As we sat on the dock, dipping our feet in the chilly Mediterranean, it seemed to me that for the first time we were all actually bonding. Of course, throughout our first month we had been making friends and enjoying adventures together, but mostly we'd been operating in small groups of friends that occasionally shifted and mixed. But now, it felt like we were all just enjoying each other's company as a big group, not smaller factions.

Maybe it's something in the water. :)

*Smicks: derived from SMC; Saint Mary's College students

Matera: November 3

(Last installation on the Matera Adventure.)

I woke up (first to little Robin's wailing at about two o'clock in the morning, and then to my alarm five hours later) and trundled downstairs for a second attempt at breakfast with Armando. To my relief, he did not insist that I cook this morning but instead prepared a beautiful spread of foccaccia, hard boiled eggs, and delicious little pastries with white frosting. Espidenzo lumbered in and asked if I'd gotten my permesso di soggiorno yet (related to my visa, allowing me to stay in the country), because it seemed that Armando was about to welcome me into the family. (I blushed and Armando, not amused, swatted him with a towel.) It was true, though, that I was getting treatment far beyond the expectations I'd had for the owners of a bed and breakfast, and I was extremely grateful, eager to repay in any way I could.

Delicious little breakfast pastries

So Armando put me to work. Not grueling labor, of course, but enough to keep me busy for a good chunk of the morning. First, I served as translator between him and my Japanese friend ("Would you like tomatoes with that?"). Then I helped Armando strip some of the beds, first my own and then some of the other guests', after packing up my things for the return journey. I also wrote, at Armando's request, a glowing report of my stay at the Bagni di Sole, not a word of which was exaggerated. Armando told me he wanted me to work for him during the summer, which honestly was a tempting offer that I still consider from time to time when I think of how much I will miss Italy. Then we got in the car and drove around modern Matera to visit his wife, Rosaria.

We made a few stops along the way. As it turned out, Armando sold his eggs to a few people around town and gave them for free to a friend who was struggling to pay the bills. It was very touching to see him, by no means a young man, darting all over Matera with his precious eggs and striking up conversations with people we saw along the way. Clearly he was a recognized figure in town. (Perhaps it was because he rented out apartments and owned a business in addition to running the Bagni.) It was a beautiful day, and the drive - along with meeting plenty of friendly people - was a pleasant one.

Armando's wife was a delightful and hospitable woman who was completely surprised to see me...apparently Armando hadn't included me in his list of things he was bringing home. She immediately sat me down and asked if I wanted anything to eat or drink before taking me on a tour of their apartment, which was large and spacious and beautifully decorated. What looked like very high-quality paintings hung on almost every wall, and their terrace was practically a rainforest of beautiful potted plants (she almost gave me one after I mentioned how pretty I thought they were). She and Armando asked for my phone number and Rome address so they could contact me, and so I could contact them if I "need anything," at which point I was very touched. Then Armando gave me a tour of an apartment he rents out - one he wanted me to rent when I brought my mom to Matera, which apparently he'd decided I was going to do.

Pepignello, the little kitten!

Pepino, his papa

As we drove back to the Bagni, Armando stopped and took me for one last gelato before I grabbed my things and headed for the bus station...but not before a brief stop at the B&B. There, I was also given an entire loaf of fantastic Matera-made bread and a homemade whistle in the shape of a bird. I'd seen clay whistles like these in the shops down in the sassi, and this one apparently had been made by Gianfranco and his friends. Armando also gave me a tour of his chicken coop, which was crawling with cooing hens and a few strutting roosters, and pressed a few cans of juice on me to take on my long journey back to Rome. By the time I boarded the bus to leave, I was teary-eyed at the prospect of saying goodbye; in just three days I felt like I'd received a third grandfather. I kissed him on each cheek in true Italian fashion, promised that I would mail him the photograph I'd taken of the two of us, and wished aloud that I'd be able to return in the spring. Then the bus pulled away and headed back to Bari.

                       

The gifts I received from Matera!

I arrived with a good hour and a half until the train from Bari to Rome left, so I went into the piazza in front of the train station to eat a snack and drink one of the juices Armando had given me. I sat on a bench near a bus stop and was minding my own business when two older Italian women sat down next to me and started chatting. I wasn't paying particular attention - not that I could have understood much if I had - until I realized that one of them was speaking directly at me.

And so I embarked on another adventure with native Italians. In fragmented Italian, I realized that they were talking about my nose. "It's a French nose," said one of them.

I told them I was American, and we were off. They wanted to know where I was from, what I was studying, how I liked Bari, which school I was with, how I liked Italy...etc. Then, they introduced themselves - Angela and Gina - and pulled me into the nearest bar to buy me a caffè. Angela was a tiny woman with a deep, gravelly voice who smoked heavily; Gina was a plump light-haired grandmotherly type. I was so bewildered and pleased that I went with them; Gina was almost giddy with delight when I offered her my arm to help cross the busy street, and the three of us squeezed into the crowded bar and drank strong espresso. I asked if the two of them were sisters or friends; Angela's response was a bit too fast for me to catch, but it sounded like they also had just met each other! (Italian hospitality - particularly southern Italian hospitality - never fails to amaze me, even now.)

After our caffè, we went and sat down outside. They (like almost every Italian I'd met that weekend) asked me if I was engaged; I said no, not even to an American, and they launched into a banter that I half-understood about marriage and children and so forth, something about making sure to find a good husband who helped share the work. I told them I went to an all-women's college so I didn't need to worry about boys; they seemed to appreciate that. Gina invited me point-blank to come stay at her house (never mind that I'd met her about twenty minutes earlier on a bus stop bench and could barely speak the language).

And then, once again, I had to say goodbye to my two new friends. They told me exactly where to go to catch my train and kissed me goodbye. I was getting sad from all of the farewells from these ordinary yet extraordinary people I'd met, but I was eager to return to Rome to tell my friends about my adventures. I boarded the train feeling completely different from the girl who'd arrived barely forty-eight hours earlier. Exhausted, but thrilled. Ready for whatever came next.

Thank you for bearing with this drawn out and incredibly long recount. Up next: the Rome Program five-day holiday to the Bay of Naples. SPQR!

Matera: November 2

(Continuing from the last post.)

By the time I got downstairs the next morning, Morlaine and Robin had gone. I was sad to see them go but already eager for today's adventures. I found Armando right away, who greeted me with a kiss on each cheek and offered me eggs for breakfast, "straight from the ass of the hen." I heartily agreed and was brought into the kitchen, where Armando asked me for how many minutes ("Tre minuti? Quattro?") I wanted my eggs to cook. Not having a semblance of a clue, I said four; he had me keep an eye on them, cooking in their shells in a small cup of water. After four minutes, I said they were finished, and Armando brought them to one of the guest tables with a piece of foccaccia. Espidenzo brought me a fresh caffè, and Armando sat across from me as I started to work on the eggs.

They were pure liquid inside. Not wanting to appear rude, I tried to inconspicuously spoon the globular, membraney, totally uncooked egg-white out of the shell. It pooled in a swimming mess on my plate. Failing spectacularly to appear in control of the situation, I frantically tried to mop up the goop with the foccaccia. That proving largely ineffective, I tried scooping it onto my spoon like soup; for the most part, it just slid right off. I kept my face as composed as possible amid the fragments of eggshell and puddles of egg and dove into the second (equally problematic) egg, trying vainly to at least scoop out the yoke (which, as I thought bravely, I liked runny anyway).

The fateful breakfast

Finally, I swallowed my pride and confessed to Armando in rudimentary Italian that I didn't know how to eat eggs like this. To make a long story short, he didn't either, because contrary to my belief Italians prefer their eggs cooked all the way, too. So it was not a cultural difference I was experiencing after all; I was just dumb enough to eat raw eggs for breakfast. I apologized to Armando for wasting two of his beautiful fresh eggs, and he replied easily that tomorrow would be better. Grateful for his understanding, I scarfed down the rest of the foccaccia and a sweet veneziano square before getting my things for our trip to the Belvedere (literally "beautiful to see"), where Armando still promised to take me.

Though it was foggy when we left the Bagni, it was clear by the time we reached the Belvedere in Armando's car. It was a stretch of flat ground at the top of a rocky outcrop across a small valley from the old sector of Matera, a picturesque view of the sassi, which are entire neighborhoods carved out of and into the stone cliffs. (Matera is one of the oldest continually inhabited settlements in the world, with some prehistoric cave dwellings dating from the Paleolithic period.) Armando led me down the great hill for some good photos, pointing out landmarks in the city like the Duomo. We spoke all the way down (and in the car) in Italian, for unlike the younger workers he knew zero English; like many of the Italian adults I was to encounter, one of his first questions for me was whether or not I was engaged (that I was only nineteen did not seem to register as an adequate reason for not having a fiancee), followed shortly thereafter by whether I was Protestant or Catholic. For about twenty minutes or so we wandered around the hill as I took pictures and asked questions, peering into a few ancient caves used by shepherds and bandits during and before Biblical times.

The sassi from the Belvedere

Armando!

See the stone cave ahead of the rock-cut homes

The tower is the church of San Pietro

Shepherds and bandits would live in these caves

The sun peeped out as we drove away from the Belvedere. Armando took me to a cafe and treated me to a small southern Italian sweet, a custard-filled pastry with cherry jam on top, and a caffè. Then he offered to drop me off at the sassi so I could explore on foot; with another kiss on each cheek, he bid me a good day and promised to see me either that night or the next morning.

For the rest of the day, then, I wandered the beautiful streets of the Matera sassi, peeking into abandoned wine cellars and climbing through old stone-carved residences, even a little chapel. For about a half hour I sat on the roof of one empty house overlooking the sunny little valley, just breathing and enjoying the fresh, quiet air. (After six weeks in Rome, the clean stillness of the air was a welcome release.) Then I wandered into a medieval wine cellar (still set up as it would have been centuries ago) and met Fabrizio, the owner.

From my rooftop perch

Inside one of the rock-cut wine cellars

We started chatting, and then he offered me a sample of Basilicata herbs in olive oil. It looked so good I decided sit down and try it...and then ended up being served a delicious meal of typical Basilicata cheeses, salamis, olives, crackers, wine, and cookies. Fabrizio cooked it all from scratch, and as he cooked (and I ate) we talked about traveling and life in Matera. It turned out that he was a business owner in Rome but spent parts of tourist season in Basilicata, where he maintained this wine cellar/restaurant overlooking the little valley. I told him how much I appreciated getting away from the city busy-ness for a while, and he spoke of how important it was to take time to be alone, to appreciate the stillness and engage with your surroundings not in the frantic manner of a tourist but in the unhurried ways of a traveler. He had a very calm and composed personality (we spoke mainly English, but with a little Italian sprinkled in...probably for my benefit), and I had a lovely afternoon sharing travel stories and listening to his advice about experiencing Italy. When it came time to pay, he told me I could pay whatever I liked and showed me a little wooden box where patrons put their bills. I had no idea how much to pay, so I dropped in what I hoped was a generous offer for what had been a fascinating afternoon, wrote a thank-you note in his guest book, and said farewell.

Lunch with Fabrizio!

I made my way slowly back through Matera, stopping in a few little shops and making the trek uphill to the Duomo for a spectacular view of the city. As the sun began to set, I left the sassi and headed to more modern territory on the way back to the Bagni di Sole, pausing to watch a spectacular sunset over the distant mountains and feeling absolutely content. When I reached the B&B, Armando was there, greeting a young French couple - Julien and Sandra - and their little son Robin. Armando offered to make me bruschetta for dinner, which I eagerly accepted, and as he bustled about I talked to Julien and Sandra. They lived in Paris, I learned, and were traveling with Robin for the first time (he was only a toddler), though they had traveled much more before parenthood. Sandra spoke excellent Spanish and therefore helped decipher what Armando was saying. (Spanish and Italian are so similar that it's not difficult to have a working understanding of the other. Since I speak about ten words of Spanish, this has not benefitted me much yet.) She seemed astonished, however, when I told her I didn't speak French.

"You don't speak any French?" she asked, genuinely surprised.

I muttered my excuses about taking Latin instead, but the truth is when you're around young Europeans, you just have to get used to feeling like the least intelligent organism in the room. Not because they try to make you feel stupid, but because many of them not only speak but are fluent in at least two languages. Now I'm not one who's in the "AMERICA SUCKS" camp - I mean, being isolated from the great Continent understandably lowers the urgency with which we are inclined to become bilingual - but I do feel a bit defunct by speaking only English with any kind of consistency.

Anyhow, back to bruschetta: It was delicious. I shared some with Espidenzo, who made snide comments to Armando about treating me like a principessa, a princess (I had to admit he was right). Domenico returned and, with the customary kiss on each cheek, asked me if I'd enjoyed last night's dancing; I assured him I had. As he left, he wished me farewell and said it had been a pleasure getting to know me. I was going to miss him, I realized!

After bruschetta, I hung around the fire Armando had made and talked a little bit more to Julien and Sandra before they headed out for dinner. A young Japanese man came in shortly after; though he didn't speak much English, we talked for a little bit, and I learned that he was traveling alone across Europe for a few weeks (though he was a medical student back in Japan). My own two-night adventure had been intimidating enough; I couldn't imagine trekking alone across Europe for weeks on end! (After a few more weekends of travel, I now can picture myself in that situation a bit more easily.)

Overall, it was a peaceful evening after a very full day. I journaled, talked to the Japanese man, told Espidenzo and Gianfranco a bit about what Wisconsin was like, and took a brief walk outside to enjoy the beautiful stars and fresh air one more time before returning to the city the next day. Even in just over twenty-four hours, I felt that I had changed, that my perspective had changed so much. As I stared avidly up at the stars and breathed in the crisp Basilicata night, I had never felt luckier, or more fortunate, or more blessed (however you see it). In coming here alone, I had done something that had scared me - many things that had scared me, in fact - and I had not only survived but loved every second of it. I'd met people, seen things, done things, eaten things, experienced things, and I felt finally like a traveler. Not a tourist. Not a displaced American. Not a wannabe European. A traveler. One who lives in the world. A citizen of Planet Earth. It was a very exciting, very tranquil moment. More than before, I felt ready for what lay ahead. Ready, and even hungry for it.

(I'll continue with November 3 as soon as I can.)